


Non-Appreciative Consults

by tanyart



Series: tread lightly [6]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Not being very professional), Baffoonery, Gen, Medical Professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: McCree sits in on a typical Moira VS Mercy discussion over a medical emergency.  Genji's there and doing his absolute worst.





	Non-Appreciative Consults

**Author's Note:**

> CW: medical fantasy/future bullshittery backed up by ignoring everything I do in my actual field of work.

There’s about a dozen bodies littering the ground, three buildings on fire, and right now McCree is dragging half a cyborg towards the hover carrier with a horrifying amount of determination that he thinks he’ll regret once things quiet down. All in all, it looks like another day on the field, except Genji’s in a laughable amount of broken pieces and hell if McCree is going to get his ass blamed for not attempting to at least retrieve the main bits of Blackwatch’s latest asset. 

Genji garbles something at him, blood bubbling out of his mouth and eyes just as bright and red. McCree can’t spare an answer, too busy trying to wave down the pilot. The weird thing is that Genji is completely coherent and conscious, which is massively impressive for mostly a limp arm and a torso with a head barely attached to it. He looks something out of a horror show and McCree would laugh, really, but his lungs are burning and his legs are shaky from sprinting away from some seven-tons of explosives.

“Genji, kindly shut up, your throat’s been— _hah!_ Holy shit, you’re nuts,” McCree says, laughing in disbelief as more blood spurts from Genji’s— _everywhere_.

Genji glances at him, a hand over his own neck and a thin knife puncturing through his throat; Genji had given himself a tracheostomy to breathe, though where he had gotten the tube— _or, wire?_ —to do it, McCree hadn’t been able to see. He suspects Genji had been given basic medic training to tend to his own specialized needs. Good thing too, since McCree wouldn’t have any idea how to handle an aspirating cyborg choking on his own blood besides radioing in for someone more medically inclined.

At any rate, his call must have triggered the cavalry to arrive. The hovercraft lands right in front of him and out pops both Doctors Moira O'Deorain and Angela Ziegler looking as if they might finish Genji off on the spot for being careless again.

Genji makes a pained grunt, and McCree glances down, surprised by the fact that Genji had made any noise that hadn’t sounded pissed off or frustrated. It takes a moment to register Genji nudging the sad stump of his other arm against McCree’s chest. 

“Don’t,” Genji rasps, squeezing his own throat to trigger whatever allows him to talk. His gaze flickers to the approaching doctors. “Take me to one or the other, but don’t leave me with both.”

McCree stares at Genji, realizing the pained grunt he heard earlier had been a groan of exasperation. He’s tempted to ask _why_ but by then they’re near enough the carrier that McCree’s curiosity dissolves into relief.

“I have a theory that you might be running into explosions on purpose,” Moira says, but she sounds like she might enjoy all the complications that would probably come with it.

Angela looks more concerned. Along with Moira, she helps McCree haul Genji into the ship. McCree barely gets his other foot onboard before the pilot takes off again, a clean sweep on and off the ground. His ears pop as the air pressure stabilizes within the cabin, the doors sealing with a sharp hiss. He slumps to the ground, suddenly feeling every aching muscle he’s pulled or twisted out of place while dragging Genji along. A malicious thought flickers in the forefront of his mind, resenting every mangled bit of the cyborg.

His risks shutting his eyes for a second, but the sound of Angela raising her voice gets him to sit up.

Both the doctors are arguing. About what, McCree is sure as hell not smart enough to figure out, but he sees medical equipment being flung to the floor where Angela is kneeling and trying to get some kind of sterile setup going while Moira is pulling out more tools from her own bags.

“Surely you can raise him from the dead once more,” Moira is saying, her tone mild. She plugs the cords from the back of Genji’s head to a portable console flashing a million graphs into the screen. “We ought to focus on his cybernetics. His organic components are irrelevant. We can always make more.”

“What organs he has left are important to him, Dr. O'Deorain. And must I remind you that he is _still_ conscious?” Angela says, looking as ruffled as McCree has ever seen her.

“I am aware,” Moira replies, shrugging. “He also prefers it.” She glances at Genji’s glaring expression. “A lack of trust in either of us, hm?”

Angela looks like she’s gritting her teeth, but instead she says, voice curt, “Doctor O'Deorain, stabilize that trache however you see fit.”

Moira does something fancy with her tools, which amazes McCree that she has bothered to follow through, though he supposes Angela’s comment of ‘ _however you see fit_ ’ had been some sort of compromise.

“You’ve done well to keep your airway clear,” Angela says to Genji, her hand tipping his chin upwards as Moira removes Genji’s faceplate and shoves another tube down Genji’s mouth. 

“Still minding your ABCs, Dr. Ziegler?” Moira smiles, wrenching the tube further down as Genji begins to convulse and wretch.

“Even a doctor such as yourself should respect something so rudimentary,” Angela returns, a syringe primed between her forefinger and thumb before she injects it into Genji. 

Genji’s entire body relaxes, leaving him blinking with an annoyed expression, and Angela looks away to attach more electrodes to his chest. Moira starts arguing with her again, ripping off some of the nodes to no avail while Angela reattaches them with an impressive amount of poise and patience.

Genji meets McCree’s open-mouthed stare with a deliberate look of his own. And then he rolls his eyes.

McCree presses his lips together into a thin line, rubbing his temples. The rivalry between Moira and Angela isn’t exactly a secret. He just hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing it firsthand beyond overhearing what little snippy exchanges he’s heard while off-duty. 

“Uh, don’t mean to be a bother, but I _do_ have a few cracked ribs of my own,” McCree says, if only to stop them from bumping heads.

“Ibuprofen’s in the first-aid kit,” Angela replies before turning back to Moira. 

They are still _debating_ over Genji’s bleeding body by the time McCree finishes shooting himself up with painkillers. He looks down to find all three of them on the ship’s floor in various states of organized chaos. Genji looks mostly resigned, but McCree’s temporary bout of ill will towards his fellow field agent wittles away into grudging sympathy. He turns towards one of the shelves and yanks out the basic medical emergency kit. 

McCree knows jackshit about cybernetics or spinal surgeries—and that’s what he’s guessing the docs are currently hollering about—but he knows Genji’s bleeding a lot from his thigh, meaning he could benefit from a tourniquet. _That_ , McCree can do. 

McCree gets so far as pulling out the tourniquet belt and getting one hand over Genji’s gushing leg parts before both Angela and Moira whirl around to face him.

“What are you doing, McCree?” Moira asks, very dangerously.

“I’m—” McCree begins, meek.

“If we need your help, Jesse,” Angela continues with a slight edge, “we will _ask_.” 

McCree drops the tourniquet. He’s not exactly frightened. He’s nearly twice their size—double Angela’s height, and likely double O'Deorain in width—but self-preservation is a funny thing. “Yes, doc. Just… he’s bleeding something awful.”

“Allow it to drain out. That’s not his real blood,” Moira says in a proud tone that leaves McCree a little unsettled. She glances at one of the monitors. “He _is_ bleeding internally though. Lungs, Ziegler, since you are so insistent about the B in your ABCs. Will you take care of that?” 

Angela mutters something under her breath. It sounds a lot like the German words for “ _fuck off_ ”, but longer, and likely more eloquent and sideways than what McCree could manage. It sets Moira off again, making her point to some part of Genji that McCree can’t see and doesn't really _want_ to see.

“At this rate, we might have to transfuse blood,” Moira muses. She glances at McCree with an expression that looks more preditory than thoughtful.

Genji proceeds to look mildly horrified by the idea, the heart monitor beginning to chatter at a faster rate. McCree is more insulted that Genji isn’t more grateful—not that McCree would _offer_ in the first place, but the point still stands.

“Listen, doc, I have a hard enough time keeping my own blood where it should be,” McCree says, scooting away.

“A poor joke, Dr. O'Deorain,” Angela says. She glances at McCree. “Blood transfusions are unnecessary and outdated, Agent McCree.”

“S’what I figured…” McCree mumbles, unnerved that Angela seems to have crossed the threshold of addressing everyone by their formal title.

Moira laughs, drawing up a rather alarming syringe the shape of gun with a large needle attached to it. “Ah, you spoil my fun, Ziegler, but I do enjoy administering a bone marrow booster nonetheless.” 

She points the gun to one side of Genji’s hip and pulls the trigger, causing Genji’s eyes to water and McCree to wish that he had knocked Genji out when he had the chance. 

“Besides,” Moira continues, unphased, “Both of your blood types are incompatible. It would not have worked… _although_ I have been working on a formula that shows significant promise on manipulating blood shape—”

“Y’hear that, Genji? Incompatible,” McCree says, excusing himself from what sounds like the start to a long scientific ramble. He catches Angela trying not to look interested in O'Deorain’s creepy blood research, but hey—better than them arguing.

The monitors around Genji start to beep at a slower, less erratic pace, with fewer alarms going off. Despite the constant bickering, Moira looks to be troubleshooting the bigger complications of Genji’s bio-augmentations while Angela has taken over the more physical aspects of keeping Genji together. To McCree’s surprise, it involves a thread and needle and a good amount of sewing.

“Genji,” she says in exasperation, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her coat. “Whatever happened to your left arm?”

Genji makes a muffled noise, his mouth occupied by the breathing tube. The ventilator shrieks once. He doesn't sound too concerned. 

“He’s lost all sensitivity and motor function,” Moira reports, managing to sound both grave and delighted at the same time. “Perhaps I will grow him another arm—”

“We ought to call Mr. Lindholm,” Angela interrupts, possibly saving Genji from being tragically mutated into having more arms than fingers. “He is much more knowledgeable in prosthetics.”

Moira throws up her hands. “Such a bore! The medical community grovels at your feet, and for what? Science will never advance with your restrictive notions of the human anatomy.”

“Oh dear. And here I assumed it was only being ethical,” Angela says evenly. From her tone, McCree assumes they’ve had this argument at least a dozen times before. “Shouldn’t the riviting challenge of being morally decent appeal to you?”

Moira wrinkles her nose. She huffs. “Fine, fine! I will follow your lead. I suppose we can still save this wretched arm of his. Get Lindholm on the line. I detest working with him, Dr. Ziegler. Egotistical brute.”

“Is that so? I find you two have quite similar work ethics.”

Moira goes absolutely silent. McCree contemplates grabbing a parachute and jumping off the carrier. He touches the emergency hatch wistfully.

“Agent McCree, if you’re not too busy fondling the emergency escape, I would appreciate it if you’d ring up Torbjörn Lindholm.”

McCree shuts his eyes. “Sure thing, ma’am.” 

Calling Torbjörn is easy. The engineer picks up right away, his face projecting on the overhead screen. The difficult part is having to listen to the cacophony of three scientifically-inclined experts talk amongst themselves, compounded by the thickening accents as the debating becomes more aggressive. At some point McCree thinks everyone might’ve stopped speaking English, the words having so many syllables and sounds he didn’t think possible. 

McCree glances at Genji. Genji is staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. In all honesty, he looks better, just supremely bored in every way now that he’s not on death’s door. And McCree suddenly realizes that Genji also doesn’t know what the hell is everyone is talking about either. It’s all incomprehensible nonsense chatter to the both of them.

“Ah fuck, we’re dumb as shit,” McCree says to himself.

Somehow, Genji manages to hear him over all the noise. The alarms start to go off as he wheezes. 

This draws the attention of Angela, Moira, and Torbjörn on not only Genji, but McCree as well.

“What did you do, Jesse?”

“What did _I_ do?”

There are at least four different alarms shrilling now. Genji doesn’t stop writhing.

“McCree, get out of here before we have to sedate him.”

“Alright, alright!” McCree says, scrambling away to hide in the cockpit with the lucky pilot. 

He closes the door just in time to catch Torbjörn yelling at Genji, _“Quit your laughing, you idiot bastard—”_ and one more shriek from the ventilator before all the alarms cut off, and McCree totters back onto the blissful quiet of the cockpit.

“ —and _that’s_ why I’m perfectly happy with being a field medic,” Ana Amari is saying from the co-pilot’s seat, legs propped up over the dashboard. She takes a sip from her tea.

“Fair enough,” says McCree.

**Author's Note:**

> \- ABCs of medicine; Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Nowadays the order is "CAB". which I think is funnier. I'm sure Moira would make the C start for Cellular Deconstruction or something like that.  
> \- The rather alarming [syringe the shape of gun](https://www.teleflex.com/usa/product-areas/vascular-access/emergency-trauma-products/intraosseous-access/).


End file.
